


The First Step in Killing Yourself is Popping a Cherry

by Neaborealis



Category: Original Work
Genre: Agent, Badass, Gen, MI6, operative, secret service type stuff, somewhat related to james bond but not explicitly, spy shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 04:51:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12005400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neaborealis/pseuds/Neaborealis
Summary: Monica, an HQ operative, is forced to make a decision when a heist goes south.





	The First Step in Killing Yourself is Popping a Cherry

Monica swerved right, fishtailing around the corner, sirens wailing in the distance as she careened down the dusty alley. Her phone buzzed and she almost rolled her eyes, but a motorcycle darted across the alley in front of her and she slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the civilian. Her phone kept vibrating in her pocket.

_I'm in the middle of a high speed chase, can't it wait?_   She muttered to herself, hitting the gas as she sped out of the alley and into a quaint, white-picket fence suburb, the kind you see in cheesy family-friendly comedies.

Her phone buzzed again and with a grunt and a silent  _fuck you_ she yanked it out of her pocket, glancing at the screen to check the caller ID. Monica swore audibly this time and pressed the button to divert it to her earpiece as she quickly answered the call. Immediately, scratchy orders blasted through her earpiece; HQ was pissed. Not only were there half a dozen police cars on her tail, but she had failed to accomplish her mission.

The retrieval had gone wrong, a security guard she had been told had been substantially bribed got cold feet when the police came knocking and tipped them off. She was only halfway through the heist when she had been rudely interrupted, and now she was being chased down by the LAPD.

She could hear the unmistakable sound of choppers overhead and glanced up through the windshield, spotting a helicopter half a mile west, as she sped past a stop sign.

As a recently initiated agent, she hadn't been equipped with the gear usually bestowed upon operatives. More specifically, they had yet to arm her with the cyanide capsule all other agents had embedded in their left molar. If it came to that, she would be helpless, and then the LAPD was the least of her worries. Many would kill to get their hands on her: the FBI, MI6, and KGB, to name a few. She had quite a history with each, and they all wanted a chance for vengeance, of sorts. She had no doubt that torture would be no stranger were she to fall into the wrong hands. She could fight back, yes, and was well trained, but she was not bulletproof. She needed to be prepared for the inevitable.

HQ was still barking directions at her as she swerved out of the neighborhood and onto a busy thoroughfare, narrowly avoiding a salmon colored VW beetle.   
  
"You had better escape this, agent. If you are captured, we can't risk discovery by rescuing you. You will be essentially dead to us. Do you understand?"   
  
"Understood," she affirmed, taking a sharp right and flying down a freeway on-ramp.   
  
As she merged into traffic, zooming between slower vehicles, the woman continued, "It goes without saying, but I will remind you anyway. Should you be captured, under no circumstances of bribery, manipulation, or torture will you disclose information on the identities, locations, or methods of members or projects of our organization. This you swore, and you will be held strictly to your oath."   
  
"Yes, ma'am," Monica replied as she glanced in her rearview mirror and noticed the flashing lights slowly gaining on her.   
  
"If it comes to it, you must be willing to sacrifice yourself. They cannot know about us."  
  
Monica bit her lip and swerved at the last second, racing up an off-ramp and back into the traffic of busy streets. If she was lucky, she could get lost among everyone else. Unfortunately, she knew just as well as the next person that luck is a fickle thing.  
  
"Agent, you were an asset to our cause, and it is with regret that I leave you to your own devices. Remember your oath." The earpiece went silent, and Monica yanked it out, rolling down the window and chucking it onto the asphalt to be crushed by a passing car.  
  
As she careened past a supermarket, she remembered reading something as a kid about cherry pits and how, when chewed or ground up, are known to be deadly. Now that she thought about it, she seemed to remember the active poisoning agent being cyanide.   
  
She swore as the light at the next intersection turned red and the traffic in front of her came to a stop. Several blocks back, police lights blared. Impulsively, Monica set the parking brake, grabbed her phone, and left the car running in the middle of the street. She dodged amongst traffic, reaching the sidewalk, and ducking her head, followed a group of tourists several blocks down, trying to blend in.   
  
As she walked, she completely wiped her phone of all data, then dropped it in a trash can as she passed. The next block down, she flagged a taxi.   
  
"Where to, miss?" The driver asked.   
  
As she glanced up to reply, his youth surprised her. He couldn't be more than 30, and handsome as he was, she doubted he would have any trouble finding a better course of work.   
  
She cleared her throat as she took a seat and buckled up.

"The nearest farmers market please." If she was going to die, it had better taste good.  
  
"Of course," he smiled, merging back into traffic and turning right at the next light. "There's one not far from here. Looking to do some shopping?"   
  
"Something like that," Monica replied, as she silently cursed the irony of the situation. On the run from the LAPD, all ties to HQ cut, wanted by more government agencies than she could count, and here she was, taking a taxi to a farmer's market of all places.   
  
The radio was playing the newest pop tune as Monica mentally prepared herself for what she may very well soon have to do.   
  
"Look what you made me do," the song ended, and the radio host gushed overenthusiastically about Taylor Swift's new hit. Monica rolled her eyes, gazing out the tinted windows at the passing street.   
  
Ten minutes later, the cab pulled to a stop in front of a bustling parking lot full of pop-up tents and tables full of produce.   
  
"That'll be $7.50," the man said, turning around and smiling at her. She wordlessly reached into her pocket and pulled out a ten.  
  
He thanked her as he took the money, his hand brushing hers briefly. She stepped out of the car onto the pavement and glanced back at him. His arm was draped casually around the back of the passenger seat as he watched her get out. She gave him a half smile before she closed the door.  
  
She wasn't in any rush to get this over with but she had no intention of procrastinating either. She walked deliberately into the rows of tents and produce, scanning the crowd for signs of law enforcement, and glancing at each stall. It didn't take her long to find what she was looking for.   
  
"One basket of cherries," she told the man working the booth, and he nodded, pulling out a plastic bag and placing a full basket in it. She would only need a couple.   
  
"That'll be $6," he said with a smile as he handed her the bag. She paid him the money and took the bag, turning to walk back the way she came, but instead came face to face with the same handsome face she had paid for a taxi ride only a couple minutes ago.   
  
"Hello," he smiled, as he firmly grabbed her arm and steered her back the way she had come. "Take a walk with me." His voice remained calm, even, but it was a command, a threat.   
  
Monica did what most women do when strange men touch them: she screamed.   
  
"Get off me you creep," she yelled, high pitch enough to draw attention, as she ripped her arm from his grasp and took a step back.   
  
"You saw that, right?" She asked the cherry booth man, gesturing widely, as people started staring. He stood tall, stiff, taken aback.   
  
"God, I can't believe people these days," she said, scowling at the man and rubbing her arm as if he'd hurt her.   
  
She started walking quickly away, head held high, face indignant. She had slipped up. This whole mess was because she had let down her guard, had trusted that the HQ would protect her, had its shit together. _This_ was why she customarily worked freelance. It wasn't her fault she'd been coerced into joining this bloody organization.  
  
She approached the intersection, walking with purpose towards the subway station the next block over. Unfortunately, fate would not let her off so easily. As she reached the sidewalk, her eyes were drawn to a bearded man in scruffy clothing leaning against the traffic light, panhandling for change. Their eyes met and a look of recognition crossed his features. Within a second he had a gun drawn on her, and with a small click, disarmed the safety. 

"Move and I shoot," he threatened, finger on the trigger. The bag of cherries fell from her hand. 

Fucking plainclothes officers. 

Gun still aimed at her, he reached for a radio hidden in his over-sized jacket. "Suspect located. Corner of Tillman and River--nnngghhh."

Really, he only let his guard down for a second. She dodged left of the gun, grabbing his wrist and twisting backwards, until his fingers curled in pain and the weapon fell from his grasp, clattering on the pavement. He swung at her temple with his free hand, but she dodged backwards, out of his reach. His lunge had slightly upset his balance, and she took advantage of it, twisting her torso as she stepped forward, then releasing and swinging her elbow into his face. His nose broke with a disgusting crack as his head whipped to the side, and she grabbed his shoulders with both hands as she rammed her knee into his groin. He groaned and doubled over, blood seeping from his nose and dripping onto the pavement. 

Monica took a step back, picking up his gun, testing the feel of it in her hand. She quickly scanned the scene, realizing a small crowd of onlookers had gathered and two uniformed officers were sprinting down the sidewalk in her direction. She ducked her head, grabbed her bag of cherries, and headed back into the market, hoping she could lose herself among the other shoppers, but the crowd parted like waves, stares following her as she hurried back through the maze of tents and tables.

She dodged a stroller and squeezed past a chatty group of millennials, running down the aisles, approaching the street, when the good-looking taxi driver stepped into her path, pistol aimed at her chest, stopping her in her tracks.

"Nowhere to run, Monica. Stop fighting or you'll only make things worse for yourself," he said gravely. 

She leveled her own gun at his head as she stared him down, trying to hide her shock at him knowing her name. "I don't particularly regret my decision."

She heard exclamations, gasps, and mumbled condemnations of gang violence from shoppers as people noticed the weapons that had been drawn and hurried to get away from situation unfolding before their eyes. Some stumbled backwards, some pulled out their phones to start recording, some swept their children in their arms and ran in the opposite direction. It was all background noise to Monica.

A blue-uniformed man emerged from a booth further up the aisle, hurrying up to stand beside her opponent, his own gun in hand, and she heard several heavy footfalls approaching from behind. 

"Drop your weapon," several voices ordered. 

Well this had all gone spectacularly downhill. She was fairly sure she could take them all. There were only five, after all. But Monica doubted she would emerge unscathed, and all things considering, she would probably end up with murder charges on her plate. In her experience, those really don't help much when you're trying to flee the country. 

"You should have just come with me," the cabby spoke up, and she met his steely gaze with her own, not yet lowering her weapon. 

"And why's that?" She responded coolly.  

"It would have been much easier than this mess," he replied indifferently.

"I said, drop your weapon!" She glanced behind her at the three officers, only two of which had guns, a pudgy brown-haired man and a red-haired woman. The other was sporting a pretty terrible nose bleed and swayed on his feet. Oh, _right_.   
  
Monica shrugged, slowly placing it in front of her on the asphalt and stepping away from it. As the man cautiously knelt down to retrieve it, Monica dug into the plastic bag still hanging in the crook of her arm and pulled out a handful of cherries, popping them in her mouth one by one, crunching hard on the pits and feeling them break open in her mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after being inspired by a Snapchat article about how eating a single cherry pit has enough of a toxic chemical that, when mixed with the acid in your stomach, can kill you. (Swallowing a cherry pit won't kill you, you have to crunch up the pit.) 
> 
> This is a one-shot but I like Monica as an OC, so I may expand this universe in the future. :)


End file.
